


A million pieces

by orphan_account



Series: Tidbits [12]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I don't know how to tag this, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason Todd Has PTSD, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Lazarus Pit, Reconciliation, Some attempts at humor, Suicidal Thoughts, TW: Degenerative disease, he is also a good big brother, is trying to drive bruce away, knowing you're doomed, not really but adjacent enought that it could trigger someone so i am tagging it, tim drake is a manipulative little shit but i love him anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22613371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Bruce and Jason are reconciling.The pit madness is finally fading.Only problem is, the madness is not the only thing that's trying to fade.(Not on his family's watch. Not if they have anything to say about it.)
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Tidbits [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541653
Comments: 99
Kudos: 474





	1. Leave it 'till the morning, i don't wanna know

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone!  
> i took a break from fics because irl kicked my butt for the past month and a half. Long story short, lots of responsabilities to juggle, and my grandmother has been diagnosed with cancer.  
> It spurred me to write something angsty about degenerative diseases, though.  
> (yes i am working on we'll go. I hit a snag. My whole plot has gone out of the window because baby jason is being a heart-stealer. I'll try to update as soon as i can! )  
> Love you all! <3

Tim absentmindedly munches on the end of his pencil as he concentrates on the graph displayed in front of him. He frowns.

Numbers can’t lie. 

He leans back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes to help them adjust to the transition between the brightly lit screen he’s been staring at and the dark cave he’s sitting in. 

Numbers can’t lie, but they can be misleading. Those particular numbers are going to be a problem. He sweeps a hand through his hair, wishing that the hair-band supply of the Cave isn’t quite so far away from the Batcomputer, and lets out a slow sigh. 

Those particular numbers are going to be a big problem. 

He prints the graph, as well as a few other documents, and gathers them up in his arms. He then thoroughly erases any trace of it from his personal laptop and walks, as normally as he can, back to his bike. He stuffs them all in the saddlebag, eying the other occupants of the cave warily. 

They haven’t noticed anything amiss. Good.

He goes to the training mats, snatching a hair-band from his locker on the way there and tying his hair back in a small ponytail. He starts a series of warm up exercises, observing Damian and Jason ‘friendly’ sparring match as he does so. 

It’s only friendly in the sense that they have enough control over themselves not to injure the other while pulling all their dirtiest tricks. More so than the odd bruise or two, anyway.

He back-flips to avoid a collision with Damian, that’s just been thrown where Tim had been standing, barely a second ago. The brat rolls with the landing and is back up in less than a second, throwing a series of dulled knives with deadly accuracy and a deadlier gleam in his eyes. Jason’s still panting.

Still.

“Oops. Sorry Timbo.” Jason says, sounding as regretful as Jason Todd ever does. That is to say, not at all. He’s been in a surprisingly good mood, for the last week or so. More so since Bruce had asked him to stay, to sleep over for a few day, or at least until patrol ended. Even more so since the adoption. “Didn’t see you there.” 

Tim shrugs, keeping a pleased smile from showing on his face. Finished with the last exercise of the series, he picks up his training staff.

In truth, there’s nothing that surprising about it. And their high spirits are even worth a few aching muscles. 

“It’s alright. We can work on your poor observational skills once you’re done training with Robin.” 

“Oooh, it’s on, Babybird.” Jason grins, deflecting an oncoming knife with one of Dick’s spare escrima sticks. “Brat. Truce? I’ll get you a new kitten if we win.”

“Absolutely not.” Bruce calls out, from one of the labs, just as Alfred says: “You will do no such thing, Master Jason.” 

“My bad. Someone’s already had one.” 

“You should-” Damian pants, now trying to keep a struggling Jason in a headlock. Tim circles them onto the mats. He twirls the staff, searching for the best way to approach. “-have considered your inevitable defeat before provoking us.” 

“I see how it is. I leave you alone for a few weeks and you forget how easily I can kick your ass.” He flings Damian off his back, then tries to kick him in the stomach. Damian twists mid-air to land a kick on his shoulder instead, giving Tim the opening he’d been waiting for. “Allow me to correct that.”

Tim leaps. A flash of blue drops down between him and his target.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Dick singsongs. “Two against one? Now that’s not very nice of you, is it?” 

What’s not nice is him being forced back when Dick springs forward in a flurry of blows that rapidly put Tim on the defensive. 

“I could take them.” Jason huffs, but he’s grinning brighter at the show of support. Or at the offended snarl Damian lets out, maybe. “What are you even doing here?”

Tim rolls off the mats, narrowing his eyes in thought. The problem with fighting Dick is the way he can move. There’s no retreating out of his reach, no contortion too impossible for him. Take his intelligence into account, and close combat’s a nightmare. He’s gained Deathstroke’s respect for a reason.

Unless you manage to restrict his possible moves by placing something he can’t risk hurting in danger. Or in his path, simply.

In this instance? Jason and Damian.

“Heard you were spending a night or two. I can’t let you guys have all the fun without me. I was already left out of your little vacation-”

If by “vacation”, Dick means that time they got stranded in an alternate universe where Tim was a Selina-copy-cat, then sure, yeah vacation is the right word. He’s sworn Jason to secrecy, and he can at least be sure his brother will keep his word. If just to annoy Bruce.

(Tim personally thinks alternate-him kicked some serious ass, but that was way too much leather for anyone to be seen wearing, much less himself.)

Back to the point he was trying to make. Something Dick can’t risk hurting: Jason and Damian. Failing that, Tim putting himself in the path of his blows in more dangerous ways than he’d initially intended would force him to divert them. It would take him less time than trying to dodge them entirely, too. Granted, that requires a certain level of trust and is not something he would attempt with just anyone. 

“-Oh, not fair, Timmy!” 

Unless it becomes absolutely necessary. 

“How’s that investigation going, by the way?” Jason taunts. “Figure out what happened yet?”

From where he’s hunched over a microscope, Bruce mutters something entirely unkind about alternate universes and faulty, unreliable, mask cameras. They aren’t. Tim’s just very good at his job, especially when it comes to preserving his dignity. Jason’s expression changes to something resembling a cat that swallowed a canary. 

“That bad?” 

“Smugness isn’t becoming on anyone, Jay.” Dick chides. He and Tim exchange a glance, and stop fighting. Jason signals Damian for a break at that, no doubt suspecting something already. 

That’s the moment Cass chooses to pounce on Jason’s back. 

Seeing the feared Red Hood, scourge of Gotham’s underworld go down with a surprised, high-pitched, squeak is rewarding, really.

  
\----------

  
As the night grows darker over Gotham’s streets, order is brought to the Cave by means of Alfred bringing them pre-patrol snacks. While his siblings throw themselves onto the food with enough eagerness that a passing observer would be led to believe they hadn’t been fed in the last decade or so, Tim hangs back, deep in thoughts.

For the first time in a long while, he’s unsure as to how to proceed. 

The peace between Jason and Bruce is new, fragile. Tenuous. Though their relationship has withstood a lot, the slightest shift of dynamics can lead to an argument that could shatter it.

The peace, not the relationship. 

He can’t ignore this. 

Yet, going directly to Bruce without consulting Damian on the matter first just doesn’t feel right. That would be akin to robbing him of one more choice. 

“D-” He begins, before thinking better of it. Later. Later tonight will do just as well. Later will have the distinct advantage of being away from any potential unwanted audience. 

He’ll just have to manage to get Damian to trust him enough to follow him somewhere away from the cave. On patrol maybe? A dark street corner or roof will not be discreet enough. The penthouse? Getting him alone is the important thing, here. Away from the cameras of the Manor. Without any of the overbearing protection of their older family members. 

Put like that, it sounds bad, Tim suddenly realizes. As well as unfeasible. 

Tim tries to think of a way of tricking Bruce’s pre-teen son into following him into the deep, dark, night without sounding like a deranged serial killer. 

Tim’s coming up short.

As al Ghuls go, interacting with Ra’s is easier. At least, then, sounding like a deranged serial killer is never an issue. There is also little to no guilt suffered from manipulating villains into doing what he wants. People he cares about are something else entirely. Damian’s case is…complicated.

He takes a sip from the bottle of water he now holds, though has no memory of getting. Looks around the Cave for the source of said bottle of water. A few meters over, Jason’s trying to act like he isn’t the biggest mother hen of them all. 

Tim takes another sip, deciding the water to be safe to drink. 

Jason isn’t fooling anyone. 

But he can use all of that, actually. Publicly asking Damian will reassure him he isn’t about to kill him in downtown Gotham on purpose, as well as give Tim a way to pressure him later on if he doesn’t take proper action. Give him a time constraint of sorts. 

It’s even easily undone if Damian decides to take proper action, but doesn’t want Bruce to know immediately. Tim will just have to misdirect a little, in that scenario. It won’t be a problem. Tim’s spent almost his entire life misdirecting people around him. 

Yes, he decides. This will do nicely. 

“Actually,” He chimes in. He’s kept an ear on what they’ve been explaining about tonight’s schedule, but it doesn’t matter much right now. This is more important. “I thought Robin and I could patrol together tonight.” 

“You what that what now?” 

Tim doesn’t roll his eyes. 

“I need his insight for something I’m working on.” 

“Which is?” Jason asks, arms crossed, frowning, tense. Bruce starts glowering, some dark storm brewing behind his eyes. 

“Has Ra’s contacted you again?” 

Tim shakes his head. 

“No, he hasn’t. This is-” entirely unrelated, but he can see how they would end up with that conclusion “-purely hypothetical.”

“Robin?” Dick asks, though he doesn’t seem any happier than the other two. Out of the three of them, he can be the most dangerous to Tim’s plan. Due in no small part to his immense stubbornness. Anyone who thinks dealing with Bruce Wayne is difficult has never encountered Dick Grayson at his worst. “It’s your call.”

Damian studies him warily for a moment. Tim gazes back, impassive. 

“Very well,” The little gremlin nods, like he’s doing him some grand favor. “I suppose helping the destitute is part of Robin’s duty.” 

Tim decides to ignore the jab for the time being.

“Why, thank you, Damian.” He replies with as much sarcasm as he can infuse in his already biting tone. “Anything else?” He asks the rest of the room, much more kindly. 

Jason slowly shakes his head, narrowed eyes never leaving him.

Bruce straight up stares, silent, displeased.

“I think we’re fine.” Dick says, too composed to be anything but still on guard. “Are you?” 

Tim still doesn’t roll his eyes. 

But gods, does he want to. 

“I am doing perfectly fine, thank you.” He sends them an annoyed look. “I just need to talk to Damian in private.” He insists. “Look, I could have easily gone behind your backs if I didn’t want you to know. I didn’t. I’m asking, in front of you. That doesn’t mean I want to talk about it now. Eventually. But not now. And yes,” He adds before Dick can add anything else. “Dick, I would tell you if the League was threatening me. I made you a promise. I intend to keep it.” 

They relax a little at that. 

“Threaten as in ‘making threats’, or as in ‘you feeling threatened’?” Bruce still forces him to clarify. 

Unhelpful, Bruce. Particularly when Tim is trying to help him, long term. Come to think of it, that seems to be a trend of theirs, Bruce hindering Tim’s attempts to help him.

Behind his back, admittedly. And sometimes overlooking his own well-being. Tim fully admits to that being part of the problem. 

“Neither. Both.” He waves a hand. “I’m fine. I haven’t seen or heard from them in forever.”

“Hn.” Agrees Bruce in that voice of his that promises extensive invasions of one’s privacy through distant surveillance in the near-future unless Tim does something about it. 

_Thus_ , Tim does something about it. 

“Ra’s too busy with having to re-plan most of this month’s schemes to have the time to attack me.” He says. 

“And how, exactly, would you know that for certain, Tim?” Bruce asks, in the very same cutting way his mother used to stress ‘Timothy’. Something hard is starting to sneak in his voice. Dick seems to agree wholeheartedly with the sentiment. 

“Because I planted bugs on him.” Tim answers, in a truthful, though perhaps a tad too unrepentant, way. 

“Fascinating.” States Damian, not grateful as of yet for all this information Tim is willingly sacrificing for him. Though he had planned on telling Dick about all of that anyways. “You truly do have a death wish.”

“You bugged Ra’s al Ghul. And it worked.” Jason says. He’s laughing, somewhere deep in his throat, shoulders shaking.

“For a time.”

“What did you do.” Asks Dick with more patience than he seems to have left in store.

That’s the beauty of it. He’s ruined Ra’s plans just by existing.

Tim smiles, shrugging.

“Nothing. He found the bugs. So he knows I know, but doesn’t know what I plan or do not plan to do to stop him. He has to re-think everything if he wants to make sure we don’t intervene.” He smiles wider. “It’s great.” 

Messing with Ra’s really is.

“And is there? Something we should do.” Bruce questions. He isn’t outright laughing, no. Jason’s the one that can make him laugh when he’s wearing the armor. But he has that glint in his eye that’s just for Tim, that a mix of sternly amused, appalled, and appreciative that only Tim can coax out of him.

“Not really. The information I got was more relevant to Green Arrow than it was to us. I filed reports. Anything you want to know about is already on the Batcomputer. I was going to tell you, actually. After patrol.” 

Bruce ‘hns’ again and doesn’t ask about the information he doesn’t want to know about.

Tim ducks his head, smiling wider.

Having someone trust in him and his judgment is a great feeling.


	2. The echoes of that news ring loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst town.
> 
> Credit to ilast (https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilast/pseuds/Ilast) (pls go check her fics, they're awesome) for helping me with this chapter!!! ily

Patrol is decent enough, for a moment shared between the two of them.

“Stay with him until the EMTs arrive. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Must you, really?”

“ _Gremlin_.”

“ _Pretender_.”

Cordial, almost. 

Tim grapples away. Rounding up the last few gang members is a good way to release the nervous energy that’s been strumming through his body for the last day or so.

Tim is first and foremost, a planner, but Tim is also a do-er at heart. And Tim can’t let this go on any longer.

He leads Damian to his most secure safe-house.

—————-

Once safely inside, Tim wordlessly retrieves the graphs from the saddlebag and hands them to Damian. He gives him time to read them in peace, making himself comfortable in the computer chair in the meantime. He observes as Damian stiffens, as his hands whiten around the papers, but most importantly, he notices the distinct lack of surprise he’s expressing. Finally the little gremlin looks up.

“What do you intend to do with this information?”

“What do you?” Tim asks, curious.

Damian falters at that. And for as much as Tim dislikes his constant smug attitude, he finds that he dislikes that much more.

“I’ve been…conducting research.” Damian says, haltingly.

“He’s getting worse.” Tim says instead of answering the first question. He takes out another chart, this one tracking Jason’s vVO2max and lactate levels over the last few months. Luckily, they test that regularly enough for him to use as another piece of evidence, however unconvincing it might be on its own. He slides it towards him, too. Damian barely glances at it. “His performances in the field are decreasing. He’s getting more and more tired for the same intensity of effort, and with it getting sloppier.”

Not much. But just enough that they’ve noticed.

And Tim had never thought he would, but he knows Damian’s noticed. It’s what put him on the case. Damian trying to contact Talia. Damian trying to get more intel on the Lazarus pits.

“Your point being?” Is spat out with more bite than any other interaction they’ve had in the last few months. 

“I need you to work with me on this one.” Tim says bluntly. “I don’t know whether the effects of the pit are fading or if this is something else.”

“You realize that Mother let me have little to no interaction with the pits?”

“I do. But we both know I’m not only talking about the pits.”

Damian goes pale.

“You must be pleased,” He says stiffly, still without any of his characteristic smugness. His hands are trembling, very slightly. Tim frowns. “-not to be forced to act in order to get rid of the competition.”

He doesn’t regret making the plans he had concerning Damian when they’d all believed Bruce had died. He’d had his reasons. Sensible ones. But he isn’t proud of it either.

And he’d thought he’d been doing so well with the not sounding like a deranged serial-killer thing, too.

“I’m not getting rid of anything. Least of all you.”

“Why, then?”

“So that we can help him.”

“Help.” Damian echoes, latching onto the word like he’s drowning. Tim’s uncomfortably reminded that the kid is only 12.

That Tim’s only seventeen himself is irrelevant.

Mostly.

“For god’s sakes, Dames. He’s my brother, too.” Though given what he’s observed of Damian’s and Jason’s interaction, and what little he knows of what happened to Jason after coming back, they might have been brothers first. Tim understands that. Tim knows Damian cares. About Jason, if not about him. He just doesn’t get why Damian’s so adamant to hide it from everyone. From Jason himself. He shakes his head. “No. I was thinking more along the lines of lessening either the length or number of your patrols, for the time being. Spend time with me until we’ve worked something out.”

He picks up a pen from one of his belts, then looks up from the stats, expectant. No answer comes. Dick would know what the kid is thinking for certain, but all Tim sees is profound displeasure and a little bit of fear. “Stop scowling.” He says, feeling unsettled by the fear for some reason. “It’s not permanent. We’ll solve this.”

“Why not bring your findings directly to Father?”

“Obviously, this can’t continue as it is.” Tim says, blissfully ignoring the interruption. “So you’re faced with a choice. Either you tell them you’re working with me a few times a week on a project. Which-” He points his pen in Damian’s direction. This feels like recruiting a minion, a little bit. But a bright yellow Damian wearing blue overalls is too disturbing for his brain to handle right now. Ever. “-would not be lying. Or. We tell the rest of the family now. Either way, we need your intel. We need to know how Jason was, before and after his dip into the Lazarus pit. And we need as much intel on the pits themselves as you can manage to give.”

“And if I refuse both options?”

“Then Bruce will eventually snoop around my League-related reports enough to find out.” He shrugs. “I won’t force your hand. Not _yet_. But I won’t let you risk his health either.”

“Why offer to cover for me?”

Why, indeed.

Tim still isn’t entirely sure of that one. He has an inkling of an idea, though.

“You may not like it, but you’re my little brother. Brothers look after each other.”

Just like with Jason. He battles the nervous energy stirring in his stomach.

It’s not that he thinks that Bruce will discard him now that he’s no longer useful, exactly. No, he’s never done that, not like Dick has. He knows Bruce loves them all, Tim included. It’s just that, for as long as he’d known him, he’s never fully had Jason back either, and that’s bound to shift some relationships.

Tim feels a little like he’s some device that’s past warranty. Not less practical or appreciated for it, no. Just…Less. On shakier grounds, so to speak. When Bruce had disappeared, he’d taken on the League. When Damian had died, they had turned every stone and then some. Tim had disappeared and no one had come looking. The world had moved on.

Yet, he can’t bring himself to regret or to second-guess his actions. His mother had always warned him about how caring too much would only end up hurting him, long term.

Anyway. It doesn’t matter. Damian doesn’t need that ammunition against him and isn’t facing the same kind of problem he is.

“What do you think I should do?”

Why? So that he could do the opposite?

“I think that it’s important for us to act as soon as we can. I think we should tell Bruce.” He answers, truthfully.

“Alright.” Damian says, tentative, and it feels like an olive branch.

Like them agreeing on something.

—————

Bruce takes the news with as much grace as Tim was expecting he would.

That is to say, none. None whatsoever.

His hands clench into fists, wrinkling the fabric of his pants. He pales, the slightest bit.

“Proof.” Is growled.

Tim nods, trying not to glance at Jason or Damian too often. He hands them both the folder of evidence he’s compiled, the blood samples, all of it. Bruce scans the few pages of text. Puts them down. Scans them again, his face darkening.

In comparison, Jason is very calm, glancing at them with barely a surprised blink. Bruce whirls.

“You knew.”

“I didn’t.” Jason shakes his head.

Bruce’s teeth grind. Audibly so.

“You’re not surprised. You knew.”

“I fucking didn’t. I thought I had mono, or something. Not… that.”

A sharp edge of pain drives a crack in their father’s voice.

“You had mono when you were 14.”

“Huh.” Jason says after a beat, nonplussed. Tim mentally adds a tally to his ‘Jason doesn’t remember all of his childhood’ theory. “ _Huh_.”

The tension in the room amps up, raises another notch. Bruce’s hands carefully unclench. They rub against the wrinkled fabric of his pants once, twice. He exhales, all controlled emotions, and when he speaks, his voice is tight.

“You’re coming back to live in the Manor. I’ll arrange for your belongings to be moved. You will not patrol anymore unless one of us is with you at all times.” 

At that Jason finally reacts, standing up in a sharp, though graceful, move. His eyes are blazing.

“Like hell I will.”

Bruce is unmoved.

“I won’t let you risk your health any further than you already have.”

“Ever think,” Jason replies, hisses, the words spit out like venom. “-that maybe I had to make my peace with dying a long time ago?”

That gets Bruce to flinch. He gets up.

“What are you saying.”

Jason stays stubbornly silent, for once, glaring, and the tight, fragile, hold Bruce had over his emotions visibly snaps.

“You. Are. My _son_.” His tone starts slow, low, but ends in a thunder. “Do _not_ ask me to let you go without doing everything I can to stop it.”

"Yeah?" Jason cuts him off, stepping forward. "Did that stop you last time? Must-”

Tim ushers Damian out of the room.

The yelling follows in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me what you think <3


	3. No music ever drowns it out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself, the feels are coming  
> again this is barely edited and not beta-ed . Im sorry for an and all typos  
> i hope you enjoy <3

**_There are a lot of things he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know his name. He doesn’t know where his family is. He doesn’t know why everything hurts so much. Why moving in some ways hurts, is impossible, when it should not be._ **

****

**_But some part of him knows, deep down, that the kid, the baby, should not be here._ **

****

**_“You promised,_** أخي ** _.” The kid says, almost pouting, and if he knew how to make his vocal cords cooperate, he’d argue that no, he really hadn’t. That the kid knows that, and that taking advantage of that is not very sportsman like. “You promised we would train!”_**

****

**_The thought, the concept, escapes him before he can finish it. The kid looks up at him pleadingly._ **

****

**_He throws the first blow, slowly, gently, and the kid jumps aside with a satisfied grin. The kid then retaliates - heh. Talia. There’s something there. He opens his mouth to say it but doesn’t manage either.- with a kick. He lets it land on his shoulder, just to see that satisfied grin stay longer on the kid’s face. It’s good._ **

****

**_It’s another thing he knows. The kid is tiny. Almost a baby still. He is not happy enough._ **

****

**_The kid should not be there._ **

****

**_“Stop holding back.” The kid huffs. He speaks like an old man. “It’s imperative that I learn enough that I can beat you fair and square, one day.”_ **

****

**_He throws another punch, grabbing the kid by his clothes and throwing him far away on the training mats. The kid shrieks. Whether it is in glee or not is debatable._ **

****

**_(There’s no arguing with the little brat, anyway.)_ **

****

\-----------

Jason wakes up.

He wakes up with a dirty taste in his mouth, his head aching, and his chest itching from his collarbones all the way down to his navel.  
  
In short, Jason wakes up feeling like shit, and it only gets worse from the moment he remembers arguing with Bruce, then with Tim. Being too tired to drive back home and having had to stay in the Manor until he slept enough not to crash his bike doesn’t help his mood either. He stumbles to the bathroom to begin his morning routine. To clear his head some before having to start patrol, hopefully.

It’s seven pm.

He’s back in his old bedroom throwing a t-shirt on when the door flies open, hitting the opposite wall with a loud bang. Jason startles.

“Your current brooding habit is becoming intolerably reminiscent of Father’s.” Damian says, barging in his room without a care, looking for all the world like he’s already inherited the place. “For as often as you point out its tediousness, one would think you would try to avoid displaying the behavior yourself.”

“I’m not in the mood, brat.” He growls. “Get lost.”

“A pity.” Damian replies, looking around the room. He disdainfully picks a stray book up, examines it, and places it on the nightstand.“For you, of course. This has gone on for long enough.”

“You and the replacement exchange notes on how to get under my skin or something?”

Damian’s scowl falters.

“Dang flabbit, you did.” Jason groans. “And here I thought I was only arguing with two of you. Seems like I’m going for the whole set.”

“You argued with Drake?” He sounds surprised.

“What’s it matters to you? You’re going to take his side? I thought you two hated each other.”

A blatant lie, an immature one, but not one Damian will call him out on.

“While that may be true, Timothy doesn’t go for the throat unless provoked.” Damian cuts him off, hopping on the dresser and sitting there, one leg drawn-up and the other one left swinging, apparently decided to have none of his bullshit today. “It is one of his admittedly too few weaknesses.”

He takes an apple from the bowl that’s now next to him and bites in it, his challenging gaze never leaving Jason’s. He opens his mouth, a cutting remark already on his tongue. How dare the little shit take food from _his_ cache, in _his_ room, when he knows perfectly well-

That whole, fresh, apple was definitely not there when he’d marched back in the his room after the whole debacle with Bruce. There is no fresh food in this room. There hasn’t been fresh food in this room in about five years, give or take a few months, and any food left would have been rotten beyond all recognition had it not been disposed of a long time ago.

 _How and when_ in the seven circles of hell has Alfred managed to do _that w_ ithout him waking up or noticing a thing?

“Oh, it’s ‘Timothy’ now, is it?” Jason deflects, staring. Trying and failing to squash down a whole lot of fondness for the older man that’s trying to swell up in his chest.

Alfie knows him so well.

“Pettiness, Todd, really?” The demon brat continues, unaware. He takes another bite out of the apple. “It doesn’t suit you.”

“I wouldn’t eat that.” He says.

Are you finally going to get out of your funk to stop me, Damian’s entire body-language challenges back. So Jason halfheartedly adds: “I poisoned it.”, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of rising up to the challenge.

“I’m immune.” The Brat shrugs, finishing it in three more quick bites. He starts taking grapes from the bowl and throwing them in the air to catch in his mouth next.

“To my” _Throw-Catch_. He tenses. “hypothetical” _Throw-Catch_. Frowns. “poison you didn’t” _Throw-Catch_. stands up, scowling. “know about” _Throw-Catch_. Walks closer to the utter shit that calls itself his brother. “until three seconds ago?”

_Throw-Catch._

Jason snatches the bowl of grapes away from him. Damian smirks, cheeks bulging like a hamster, full of grapes, pleased as punch.

Kid brothers are hell on earth.

“In the unlikely event that _you_ would waste food? You have no instruction on poisons beyond what the League offered you.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Not for certain.” Damian nods. “But even putting aside your painfully lacking education in the matter as well as the Mithridatism I underwent as a child, you have not tried to kill me in quite some time. Nor would you sit there and risk everything you worked for without cause.”

Jason sighs.

“Those are a lot of dangerous assumptions you’re making.”

“Are any of them false?”

“I hate you. So much.”

“The feeling is mutual, of that I assure you.” He jumps down from the dresser, stealing one last grape as he does. Jason scowls, swatting towards the back of his head and purposely missing. He doesn’t want to risk injuring the little snot, not even accidentally. “Do be prompt in dressing yourself. I have no wish of delaying patrol further.”

“Since when do I regularly patrol with you lot?”

“I suppose you don’t. I shall go, then. Alone.”

Jason scoffs.

“What do you want me to do? Whip out sad violins for your pity patrol? Don’t even try, Demon, angry bagpipes suit you so much better.”

Damian shrugs.

“I merely thought you wouldn’t approve of me tackling the remains of Black Mask’s empire alone. I can see I was mistaken.”

He’s being manipulated. He knows he’s being manipulated. He knows it.

He _knows_ it.

“What about Dick?”

Knowing doesn’t stop it from being effective.

“Blüdhaven.”

“Cass? Duke?”

“With Drake.”

“They left you to patrol alone.”

Extremely doubtful.

Damian looks at him like Jason has somehow managed to lose all of his remaining brain cells the last time he’d been concussed.

“They did not.”

\----------

And, alright, Jason can take this for what it is. A gesture on both Bruce and Damian’s part. He comes back from patrol in a significantly better mood than the one he left in.

He can appreciate it enough to go up to Bruce’s room once patrol’s over, he’s probably still happy from the exercise high. He knocks a few times on the wood, and it’s not long until Bruce opens his door.

He looks surprised to find Jason there. He’s not usually willing to talk this soon after they argue.

“Can I come in?” He asks. Bruce nods, then wordlessly lets him pass.

Jason goes to sit on the bed. Still silent, Bruce takes a seat next to him.

“I’m sorry.” He starts, and part of him wants to run, to draw back from Bruce, but the other part worked too hard for too long to ruin everything now. “You know I don’t blame you for _that_.”

Bruce has always been bad with words, but he’s also always been good with actions. Jason knows that they’re going to be alright when he takes his hand. It’s an apology and forgiveness in one.

“You were right to defend yourself.” Bruce replies. “I should not have tried to-.”

“Order me around?” Jason asks, with a tinge of bitterness.

“I’m going back to my apartment.” He announces. “I’m not ready to stay here long term.”

“Are you sure?” And is that _fear_ , creeping in his voice?

“Yeah. It’s too much. One of us’ gonna do something that’ll make the other blow up and ruin everything.” Said other doesn’t look too happy at that declaration, but does nod in assent.

“I would… appreciate-” Bruce starts, haltingly. It’s painful how awkward things are between them now. They used to understand each other better than this. But at least they’re trying again. At least they’re talking again. “-it if someone stayed with you.”

“I’ll call up Roy. See if he’s willing to take a little sightseeing trip to Park Row.”

A muscle in Bruce’s jaw jumps. He closes his eyes.

“Thank you.” Jesus, this is like pulling teeth. Jason squirms uncomfortably.

He scratches at his chest with his free hand.

“Yeah. Don’t mention it.”

The beat of silence that follows is heavy. Painful.

“Jason.” Bruce says. His eyes are still closed. “I will not- I _cannot_ \- lose you again. You can’t give up. Do not ask me to give up on this.”

“Jesus. I’m not- I wasn’t.” One breath. Two. Keep the crowbar and the pit away. “I don’t _want_ to die, old man.” All the air seems to leave Bruce in a rush. “But I’m not. It’s just.” How to say this? “It doesn’t scare me. Been there, done that. There are worse things,” than him dying. Like the whispers of rage, rage, rage, pain, kill. Having no control over his own mind. Or the Joker’s grinning face as he wins, as the door closes. There are worse things than him dying. “-you know?”

“No.”

That hits Jason like a gut punch. But Bruce’s voice is steady now.

“We’ll fix this.”

“Okay.”

“Jason, look at me.”

He does, swallowing hard.

“We **will** fix this.”

And there’s that conviction Jason used to see when he was Robin. That belief that Batman could just make things happen, no matter how impossible they seemed, if he wished them hard enough.

“Okay.”

“Stay.”

“I can’t.” Jason tries for some humor, smirking. The mood desperately needs lightening up. “Besides, I’m a big boy now. Can’t live at my dad’s forever, you kno-”

He stops, mid-sentence, squinting at Bruce’s almost _touched_ face. It’s just gone through the five stage of grief, in reverse. From the vaguely disgruntled acceptance it’s been stuck in all the way to denial, then _touched_.

“Okay, what’s up with you?” He mentally rewinds his sentence. “You heard me, right? I said I’m _not_ staying. Emphasis on the not. Unless you’re happy that I’m not staying. In which case, fuck you kindly. If this is some stupid ploy to make me stay in the Manor through reverse psychology, let me tell you, it’s not going to work-”

And the corners of Bruce’s mouth are twitching up now.

“It’s not.” He says, almost fond.

“What is it, then?” Jason asks, still squinting suspiciously.

Bruce takes his hand, then a big breath. He still has that soft, light, look in his eyes, the one he used to get way back when Jason was Robin, and Jason tries not to freak out. Bruce staying silent is not helping.

“Seriously, old man. You’re freaking me out.”

It bears saying.

“You.” Bruce says. “You called me-”

“Dad. Yeeeah. So?” Jason says slowly.

Bruce’s fingers are twitching like he wants to draw Jason into a hug, and his face makes it clear he thought Jason doesn’t. Not anymore. Not since he died.

But he has to be kidding. Has to. There’s no other possible explanation here. Bruce can’t possibly be this dumb.

“How did you miss the part where 90% of our issues since I came back directly stem from the fact that I think of you as my dad?” He splutters, gesturing helplessly. “ _How_.”

Bruce’s jaw gets clenched, tight.

“Thought, maybe. Before you d- Before you came back.”

Jason feels himself tiptoe on the edge of breaking into hysterical guffaws

Okay, there are obviously things that need saying here.

“Bruce, what the fuck? Do you think I would be even half this furious if I didn’t love you?”

Silence. Bruce’s grip on his hand is bruising.

“I let you adopt me again.” Jason says, at a loss of what else to say.

“Let me, yes.”

What even.

What.

No.

He sits, legs dangling from the side of the bed.

“I told you _in tears_ that I would have murdered Joker had our positions been reversed. I come _running_ to help every single time you so much as hint you need it. I _hugged_ you when you were amnesiac. I tried to adhere to _your_ moral code so that things could get better between us.” He groans, pushes the heel of his palms hard into his eyes. “Hell, I hugged you _again_ when you asked about the adoption. How did you _possibly_ not **_get it_**?”

How?

He could not have been more obvious if he’d gotten it tattooed in bright purple ink on his forehead.

Well, no. His helmet would have been in the way, the half of his time he’d seen Bruce.

He, quite literally, could not have been more obvious.

“If anything, I am the one that has the right to doubt.”

“What?” Bruce says in a deathly quiet tone of voice.

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to think, Bruce? Ninety-nine percent of the time, you’re, like, the best dad. With promises that I still belong, and offers to come back, and ‘If you ever leave, it will be your choice not mine.’ You act exactly like I remember from back then despite the fact that I was hellbent on doing as much damage as I could to you and the others.-” From somewhere on his left where Jason can’t see, Bruce makes a chocked sound low in his throat.“-Then once in a blue moon you go and pull shit like the Case. You throw me away every time I get close. And I-”

He stops there, not wanting to lose it. 

“I don’t know what you want from me.” He mutters in a tired voice. “At least, when Willis beat my ass, I knew where I stood during every second of it.”

“Jason Peter Wayne, you look at me right this instant.”

Again, Jason does, like he’s still wired to obey that voice’s every command.

“I am sorry I didn’t make myself clear enough. I am sorry I did not say it enough. I am sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.” Bruce says, and one of his hands is cupping Jason’s neck. “I have a lot to make up for. But I love you more than life itself. Never doubt that.”

“Jesus fuck, old man. You can’t just-”

“ _Never_. Doubt that.”

“Okay.” Jason breathes. “Okay.”


	4. You blow my mind, you make my heart beat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce is having a lot of feelings. A lot of anxious feelings. Jason is a troll and Damian is a little shit.  
> Surprisingly not much of tim in this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!! it's been a while, i'm sorry  
> Life is being weird , but i hope you are all taking care of yourself <3 drink plenty of water, get that sweet sleep in  
> don't be a bruce, guys  
> (i suck a bit at replying to comments at the moment, but please know that i read and absolutely adore every single one of them)  
> Love you all <3 <3

They’re running themselves ragged.

Jason lets them do test after test, blood analysis after blood analysis, answer the million questions they have for him, suffers through monitoring with a surprising patience. Bruce and Tim dig up every piece of information they’ve ever had on the Pits, and then some. Bruce even tries to contact Talia.

Still, with every passing day, Jason’s condition seems to grow worse.

Maybe it’s just that Bruce is paying closer attention to every minute detail now, every hint of exhaustion, every stumble. Each lingering bruise. Each moment of inattention.

Jason gets tired more easily, now. He won’t ever admit it, but it’s etched in his every move. He accepts a ride to the Manor, accepts to spend the night, instead of attempting the grueling journey back to his safe-house. Then another night.

Then he stays for a whole week.

“Don’t get used to it, old man.” He warns Bruce. He’s frowning, and Bruce isn’t sure what face he’s making or what emotion he’s betraying, half-hidden as he is behind his morning paper. Whatever it is causes Jason to smile at him, slow, brilliant, mischievous and growing, just like when he was Robin.

There’s a tight vice around Bruce’s heart.

Dick comes back to Gotham.

He announces loudly that he’s spending the next few weeks in the Manor, for convenience purposes, of course, you see, and then proceeds to absolutely dote on Jason. To hover around him like an overly caffeinated, anxious hummingbird.

Jason accepts it with nothing more than an exasperated roll of his eyes, and a light shove whenever it looks like Dick is going to try to get too close to him.

God forbid he’s shown any kind of physical affection.

Stupidly, that's what panics Bruce the most. The uncharacteristic lack of protest. Back before his death, it had taken a while for Jason to grow comfortable with touch.

Now, with everything that happened, him not reacting much beyond a light-hearted shove or two is… concerning, to say the least.

Baby step by baby step, Jason slowly starts to come back home. They’re both working so very hard to rebuild the lost trust that used to come so easy to them. So, Bruce doesn’t put his foot down, doesn’t ask more of him than he’s ready to give. He trusts Jason to know his limits, despite the worry, the _fear_ clawing away at his stomach.

His efforts double. Tim’s efforts double. Cassandra goes so far as to reach - threaten - some old contacts from the League.

They’re running themselves ragged.

Bruce knows that. Some days, it feels a lot like the fight’s already lost.

Giving up, however, is not an option. It’s never been.

\-------------

And yet, life goes on. Time passes. They patrol. They trade quips, work hard, and deal with the crisis of the week.

Bruce comes home more than once to his family trying to have a peaceful movie night. To Jason pelting his siblings with popcorn kernels when he thinks they’re not looking, shit-eating grin firmly in place.

“That’s _it_ , Todd.” Damian says, as Dick’s helping brush popcorn from his hair. “You’re going down.”

Jason pauses for a second. He squints thoughtfully. Then, with the deliberate slowness of a cat sweeping a mug off a counter top, he throws another kernel. One that hits Damian square between the eyes.

“ _Master_ Jason _._ ” Alfred scowls, but even then, it’s not up to his usual standard.

 _‘Who, me? Why, I never._ ’ Jason’s face seems to ask, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He checks his phone again, for the nth time that night, and frowns thoughtfully. Then he gets up.

“ 'Xcuse me.” He says, obnoxiously stepping over various limbs on his way to one of the couches and deliberately blocking their view of the screen. He’s not subtle in doing it either. “Sorry. Don't mind me passing through.”

He reaches his goal, stopping next to where Dick and Damian are almost cuddled on the couch. He crouches down, half-turning his head in Bruce's direction.

“I’m in dire need of our one true Heir and savior.” Bruce looks back at him in that impassive way he uses to mask his surprise. Jason smirks. “Your scheduled evening activities can resume shortly.”

He plucks Damian up from Dick's newly-slackened grasp. Lifts him until Damian’s left dangling from under his left arm, the kid limp, practically folded in half with his eyes widened in surprise, and goes to step again over the others on his way out of the room.

“What the fuck?” Stephanie says.

“I'm only borrowing him, you'll get him back good as new.” Jason calls back, jumping over Tim's legs.

Tim lifts one leg up to try to trip him and Jason avoids it smoothly, landing noiselessly, then making a dash for the door.

“UNHAND ME, TODD.”

Life goes on. Time passes.

They do all of that and more, like his son might not be dying in front of his eyes.

Like Bruce isn’t feeling wretchedly useless.

\--------------

“You’ve been trying to find Talia,” Jason asks, frowning at the training mats, one night. They’ve been back from patrol for a good five minutes now, after Bruce called it an early night, and yet he’s still not breathing as well as he should.

Bruce turns around and takes in the bags under his eyes. The injured arm, his tired posture. The slight hunch of his shoulders.

The way he’s looking at everything _but_ Bruce _._

“I have been, yes.”

Jason has also been trying to find Talia, he knows.

“Bruce.” Jason stops. Starts up again, assured, looking like every bit the man he’s grown into, at some point when Bruce wasn’t looking. “I don’t care what happens. Don’t put me back in the pit.”

They’ve had this argument before.

“Jason.”

 _“Don’t._ Promise me.”

Bruce wants to. Bruce doesn’t know how to. He’s not in the habit of breaking promises he makes to his children. And he’s fairly confident he would handle a pit-crazed Jason better than a dead one. That Jason’s not is terrifying.

“Jeezus. Is it so hard to believe that I would rather be catatonic, _if_ it even comes to that, than be a crazy, murderous, husk?!”

“Catatonic.” He states, mind blank, thoughts stuttering to a stop.

Jason stops again. Stares at him for a moment. Then, comprehension dawns, and his anger rises. His eyes turn greener, his breathing normalizes.

“Unbelievable.” The anger in his voice is rising with every syllable he spits out. “What, did you think Talia just happened to stroll by Gotham’s cemetery one day, and decided: ‘Oh, hey, you know what would be fun? Stealing Robin’s rotting corpse! That’ll make my day a jolly good one, for sure.’”

Bruce flinches but doesn’t answer.

“Oh my fucking god, you half-tossed salad. You _did_.” Jason’s voice is pure anger now. He’s always been protective of Talia. “Of course you did.”

And Bruce’s thrown for a loop all over again.

\-----------

The news should come as a relief. In a way they do.

 _Not dying, not dying, not dying._ Bruce thoughts circle back to time and again as he flies over rooftops two vicious, arguments-filled, hours later.

It feels like he can finally take a full breath again.

But it’s also terrifying. Good things do _not_ drop in Bruce’s lap like they’re nothing. They’re not about to start just because he wants them to.

If Talia didn’t bring Jason back, _what did_?

Jason’s been tight-lipped about that. What’s to say that whatever it was is not about to fail, too?

Bruce stays in the city until sunrise.

\-----------

For all that they’ve had their fair number of arguments over the years, those never last long.

They usually just need some time apart to calm down, to soothe their frayed temper.

Jason took a night off patrol, and at Tim’s request no less.

When Bruce stumbles out of the shadow of the clock’s passageway, it’s with the intent to check on him before dragging himself to work.

He doesn’t need to make the trip to Jason’s room, or to search for too long, however.

Jason’s curled up right there, on the couch, reading.

‘You’re here.’ Bruce means to say. ‘You didn’t leave. You came back. I love you.’

Instead, what comes out, is-

“Zorro?” With a head tilt towards the cover of the book.

It doesn’t feel near enough. Jason seems to get it anyway.

“Well, you did raise me. Not from the dead, granted, but still. That’s bound to leave some mark.” He hums, flipping to the next page of his book nonchalantly. Past the sting of the quip, all Bruce can hear is the implied _‘I love you_.’

Bruce sits next to him, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, eyes closed. He feels Jason move slightly until he is leaning part of his weight against Bruce’s shoulder, legs propped over the armrest.

“Injuries?” Jason asks in a bored voice.

Bruce lets out a non-committal, tired grunt. He shifts his arm until Jason’s leaning against his torso in a side-hug, and not on the vicious bruise that’s his shoulder.

“Jesus fuck, we’re a mess.”

He makes the exact same grunt again in answer.

“You’re downright eloquent this morning.”

He doesn’t answer that. They spend some time in comfortable silence, only broken by the occasional sound of a page turning and their steady breathing. As tired as Bruce is, he can’t fall asleep. Not now. This is something he’d believed he would never get the chance to experience again, a few years ago. A few months ago. He lets himself rest, enjoy the peace for a moment. Then, his phone chimes, and it’s time to get moving.

“Work.” Bruce says, adjusting his tie, eyes still closed.

“I don’t think so.”

“Coffee, then work.” He concedes, shifting, arm tightening around Jason’s shoulders in a gentle squeeze. Jason leans more weight on him. It’s barely a fraction of what he can lift, but it feels insurmountable at that moment. His kid’s always known how to fight dirty. It doesn’t help that he really doesn’t want to move, to shatter the peace. “There’s a meeting.”

Isn’t there?

“Well, aren’t you and Tim just two pathetic peas in a sick, sleep-deprived, pod.”

Bruce opens his eyes.

“Tim.”

“Tim.” Jason agrees, amiably. A sure sign he’s furious about something.

“Sick.”

“ _Sick_.” The jazz-hands his son adds at that are entirely unnecessary.

“Condition.”

“Nasty case of the flu. Nastier case of insecurity.”

Bruce goes to stand. Jason gives him more details, pressing more heavily down on him. Bruce’s holding up all his weight at this point and he feels himself sinking back into the couch.

“Fever, exhaustion, painful joints. You wake him up, I put that bullet I promised you between your eyes. He’ll be fine in a few days. You won’t.”

“I won’t.”

Wake him up, that is.

“Please. You’re not even standing, much less stealthy by your standards, and you trained him. Dick’s with him. He’s fine. I have a question for you.”

Tim’s fine.

“You do.”

“I always do. But this one’s about Tim.”

Not furious, then. Rattled. Both?

“What happened?”

“See, that’s the funny thing. We talked. Then he tried to make me go with a plan that had a good 95% chance of him ending up dead.”

What.

Bruce goes rigid. Jason follows suit.

“It would have worked, too. Now, I know I’m screwed up in the head. The pit madness is just a tiny part of it. But I’d still like to know exactly why the _fuck_ the kid believes he’s expendable.”

Bruce would like to know the same thing. Why any of them do, really.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“Me? If _I’m_ alright? Are you getting hard of hearing in your old age? I just told you I’ve almost gotten him killed.”

_‘Look, B, I disobeyed. Look, B, I snuck out. Look, B, I broke it. On purpose._

_Watcha gonna do now, huh?_

_Throw me out?’_

Jason really hasn’t changed all that much.

“No. You said he tried to make you go with that plan. Tried implies he failed.” He’d also said that Tim was unhurt, if sick.

“Maybe I phrased that badly. Maybe I just failed at the actual killing part.”

Bruce hums, doubtful.

“Did you?”

“Not you, too.”

Furious, rattled, _and_ lost. He looks down. Jason’s blue-green eyes – blue, they used to be _blue_ – are looking anywhere but up at him, glaring viciously at the door instead.

One of the few differences between the Jason from before and the one he got back. Something he knows his son hates, but he doesn’t mind much.

Does that make him selfish?

Perhaps.

He doesn’t care much, one way or another.

“What happened?”

“He somehow got it into his head.” Jason hisses. “That if I wasn’t going to use the pits, the next best way to keep me from getting worse would be triggering the pit rage. Re-activate the magic and all that, I guess.”

_What._

“Using himself as a target of course. Because why wouldn’t he?” Jason’s next laugh is bitter. “It worked before, didn’t it?”

Bruce tightens his grip, drops a kiss into his hair.

“He can’t do that. He _can’t_.”

“He can’t.” He agrees wholeheartedly. “We’ll talk to him. I’m proud of you, Jay-lad.”

\-----------

They’re running themselves ragged.

Jason realizes that.

He doesn’t realize just how much they actually are until an exhausted, but still trying to hide it, Robin makes a mistake on patrol. One that result in a tumble, a bullet graze, and Bruce putting his big, clumsy, foot down and grounding Damian.

While he doesn’t exactly approves of the execution, he can’t say he disagrees with the end goal.

Of course, whether or not Damian’s actually going to obey for more than the first couple of day is anyone’s guess.

Still, between everything that’s been happening, recently and his Mom being off the grid -deep cover mission, Jason knows- someone ought to look after the kid.

Jason doesn’t know where all this protectiveness comes from. He’s rolling with it, though.

“So.” He tries, leaning against the kid’s bedroom door. “Tough break, huh?”

Damian doesn’t even deign to look at him.

“You have as much tact as Grayson does fashion sense.”

“I resent that.”

“Don’t we all.”

“Hey! I can be tactful.”

“Consider me ecstatic to learn that your attempts at sending me into a depressive spiral are deliberate, then. Thank you, Todd. Mother always used to compliment your emotional intelligence, but I suppose no one is a perfect judge of character.”

“Feeling sassy are we, today, squirt?”

“Oh. Perhaps _there_ is the dim spark Mother thought she spotted. Flawless deductive reasoning. Did you base it on my monologue, or did-”

“Alright.” Jason puts his hand over Damian’s mouth. It’s immediately bitten. He lets it stay there, Damian will let go on his own either before he breaks skin or after the blood fills his mouth and disgusts him. “Enough. I’m sorry. I could have gone about that better. I know you feel like shit, and actually came here to talk about anything but that. I know you get enough of that from the others. Unless you _want_ to talk about it.”

He gets his hand back with slight teeth mark, but without any wound. No blood whatsoever. Thank you, Saint-Grayson for your years of legwork.

“Do I want to talk about the possibility of my brothers dying?” Jason’s strangely touched at the declaration. “Or is it me failing every expectation my parents ever had of me that drew your attention? Which one do you think I’m most eager to talk about?”

Tears are brimming in the kid’s eyes.

“Or perhaps it’s my being unable to do the one thing I am truly good at, anymore? You’re right, Todd, I’m positively _dying_ to talk about all of that.”

“Okay.” Jason says.

And waits.

And waits some more.

It isn’t long before Damian breaks the silence.

“You can _not_ be dumb enough to believe that sentence was sincere.”

“Nah. I’m just waiting to see how long it takes you to notice the contradictions in what you just said. You’re at a minute so far.”

“I will _murder_ you.”

“You’re welcome to try. A minute ten.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“It’s not. Fifteen.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“You’re not arguing against anything I said.”

“Not yet. I’m waiting for you to find the flaw in your own logic. Plus, I’m betting you’ve already heard every single platitude in the book.”

Damian’s silent.

“How can you fail at every single one of your parent’s expectations when by failing one you make the other happy? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it still sucks balls, but at least failing both is not possible.”

“By failing one, then the other.”

“Yeah, kiddo, I’m going to stop you right there. You haven’t failed anyone. In fact, from what I’m led to understand, you tried pretty damn hard to help.” Jason looks at him. “Thank you.”

Damian swallows.

Jason leans forwards. Ruffles the kid’s hair.

Then, he sits back down and carefully pretends nothing ever happened.

“Sorry kid. Sometimes, life sucks. And that’s okay. We’re okay. And don’t worry. I’m not giving up before I’m well and truly dead. Maybe not even then. You do know I have something of a track record, don’t you?”

“You better not.” And it’s almost haughty enough.

He picks up the book. “So, you’ll want to hear this one. It’s about a bunch of guys that get stranded on an island and manage to get through the experience less brain-damaged than Queen did.” The kid still looks wholly unconvinced, so he adds “They also learn how to blow shit up with stuff they find in the wild.”

“I suppose it would be an acceptable choice.” Damian finally nods, relaxing back in the chair.

Jason snorts.

“Yeah. I thought it would.”

——————

**_The kid seems to love art more than Jason’s seen him love anything else. Way more than he seems to love training. It’s in the way he lights up when he draws. In the way Jason’s subjected to looking at painting after painting. He’d ‘hoo’ or ‘haaaa’ in awe if he could, but like a lot of other things, sounds are out of his reach. Have been for what feels like months, now. Since… Since._ **

**_The kid loves art more than anything. It’s in the way he drags Jason around the compound by the sleeve to find the perfect spot to see the grounds at sunrise. Commands him to catch a grasshopper for him to paint. Commands him to help him climb the outermost wall so that they can find a quiet spot. Lets himself be swung on Jason’s shoulders, despite the indignity of it, so that they can manage the last few feet of the climb. Commands him to stay still, completely still, so that he can draw him._ **

**_Jason’s bad at that. He usually forgets, after a minute or so._ **

**_“Bhai.” The kid complains. He looks so much like someone else when he scowls. Jason feels a rush of fondness wash over him. “Stay still.”_ **

**_Jason closes his eyes and stays still, lets himself bask in the hot sunlight._ **

**_Why does the sun feel wrong?_ **

—————

“Hood.” Someone is gripping his right forearm tightly. The pressure is starting to border on being uncomfortable. His chest itches something awful. There’s cold rain sliding down the back of his helmet, slipping down his collar and drenching his under-armor. “ _Hood._ ”

Jason blinks. The movement feels as though he is trying to drag his eyelids open through a thick coating of tar.

“Hood.” Two small gauntleted hands are gripping his cheeks, applying pressure. “Look at me.”

The rain’s drenching his hair, now. Where has his helmet gone?

The water trickles from his forehead and down to his eyes.

Jason blinks again.

The small shadow in front of him, _the kid_ , mutters a curse in Urdu. The pressure against his face increases and then disappears. A hand bunches the fabric of his sleeve.

“Come.” The kid orders, and the only thing that’s changed, really, are their surroundings. The pipsqueak tugs him towards the end of the roof.

Jason goes.

.

He blinks.

.

He’s sitting in a car. The rain’s still falling hard outside of the little bubble of safety the car’s offering. Someone’s shining a light in his eyes. He tries to turn his head, away from the painful brightness, looking for the kid.

“Jason?” The man kneeling in front of him asks, then grasps his arms. ' _Safe_.', his brain provides.

Still, Jason struggles against his hands. He can’t find the kid. Why can’t he find the kid?

“Enough.” And it’s not exactly the right voice, it's a little deeper than he remembers it being, but it’s close enough. A tiny, familiar, scowling, face fills his vision. "Stay still."

Jason settles down. The man holding him starts rubbing his hands roughly up and down his arms, as though trying to warm him up.

It’s grounding.

.

The car starts moving.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I can't promise i'll update quickly, irl, college, and the likes really are kicking my butt, but i will do my best <3  
> as usual, i own nothing, not even the fic title


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